


Capture It, Remember It

by thekatcameback



Series: The Old Guard Daemons [2]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (literally), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Daemon hijinks, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Joe vs Crusader Nicky's bad attitude, M/M, Nicky vs Shakespeare for Joe, Nicky vs bandits for Joe, Romance Through The Ages, Temporary Character Death, always choosing to stay in love, just lots of dudes loving dudes and having sex about it, romance and also sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:54:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27312199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekatcameback/pseuds/thekatcameback
Summary: Yusuf and Nicolo, Joseph and Nicholas, Joe and Nicky.Miriam and Zipphora through the ages.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: The Old Guard Daemons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926766
Comments: 15
Kudos: 233





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was written at about the 2/3 point of writing Into the Dust. I just wanted to spend more time with Joe and Nicky and their unusual daemons, learning to be in love and then doing it indefinitely.
> 
> I'd recommend reading Into the Dust first, because this spoils all of the weirdsies that I'd rather you experience first with Nile.
> 
> Title from "Fearless" by Taylor Swift. I made a friend do the math on which album would be each's favourite, and this was clearly Joe's. I'm not sorry, this is how I spend my time. (For the record, Nicky just says he also likes Nile's favourite because he DOES NOT CARE but does love Nile.)
> 
> Thank you to all of you for the amazing comments on my fics. I do plan to respond, but when I read them I get all flattered and embarrassed. I just haven't had the juice to face compliments and pretend to be extroverted in the last few weeks. But I see you and adore you and am so grateful. I hope you enjoy this one too.

Yusuf is caked with blood from the neck down, mud below that beginning at his waist. He can no longer see a familiar companion when he looks to either side, if it would even be possible to pick a face out of the churning masses. He is too hot and he aches in ways that are unfamiliar and unwelcome.

In addition to all his immediate concerns, Yusuf is newly uncertain of his place in the afterlife. Since childhood, he and his daemon have debated their future, read as much as they could find in each new city they travel to. They have tried to shape him into a good man, to do good works. He has accepted and begged forgiveness for his imperfections, the small ways in which a man can test the boundaries of faith to make trade with strangers a smoother process.

He has been gutted four times since the invaders arrived.

Ibn Sīnā’s description of the intimate interiors of a man’s body have not been reflected in the riot of colours Yusuf has spread on the battlefield. During his last death, slower than one would wish for, he had baked in the sun and considered the materials needed to modify anatomical illustrations. He had died considering the difficulty of capturing the gloss of his stomach, still vivid against the bloodied dirt below him.

Time and time again, he has risen whole with his daemon beside him. He would never want to lose her, but he is no child and knows that one day their paths will part. But to prepare himself for the separation again and again, knowing that the only reward will be a fresh awakening and a frantic retreat to consider his unmarred form—

She rubs along the outside of his thigh as she paces near him. A good daemon, better suited for a warrior than a scholar. Fangs and claws and the steady, curious eyes of a natural hunter.

“He’s there,” she says and the heat baking him from the crown of his head down floods with cold.

The invader is tall-enough and pale-enough and strong-enough. Yusuf would attribute every average feature to him, determined to dismiss the colour of his eyes when they’re hilt-deep in each other’s chests or the slow, secret way the man smiles when his own daemon attacks first. Of course, like him, the man is determinedly undying. Yusuf thinks that he seems to take more advantage of the fact, adds to the mask of blood on his face every foray he makes onto the field. He should be disgusted. Instead, he is troubled.

“Shall we try again?” he asks to earn a final bark of his daemon’s laughter. “This time, perhaps I will take his sword arm off and he will finally walk back to his religion’s own hell.”

“It appears we have nothing but time for this,” she agrees and twines herself around him once before they’re moving forward. Other men have nothing on his invader now that Yusuf doesn’t fear their weapons. A sword, a pike, a knife. These things may slow him in his pursuit, but every time he falls to his knees he rises faster, stronger.

The invader points his longsword and curses. Yusuf has heard the language, but in a time of war he does not consider conversation with the enemy to be the best use of his education. He brings his own scimitar up, loathes and loves the lust for battle that steadies his hands.

The invader is as good a fighter as Yusuf, which is to say that they started unexceptional but stubborn and have become slightly better every time they meet and kill each other. Yusuf can recognize some of his own moves in the man’s footwork, adapted for the wider swing of the sword. He knows the points of attack he now takes have been changed in turn. Still, it’s hard not to feel like he has an advantage with a free hand for a knife or possibly some emphatic hair pulling.

The ground, and possibly the limbs of other fallen warriors, shift under his feet unpleasantly as they travel, ceding and gaining ground like a dance. And then, Yusuf feels an imbalance that is not his own, pivots to see his daemon lose her footing and slide away from him.

And the invader reaches out, whip fast, and grabs her by the scruff of her neck to prevent her fall.

Yusuf flinches under the expectation of pain, but there is none of the responses he had been promised for coming too close to another’s daemon. The man seems frozen and confused, hand still clenched tight in Yusuf’s daemon’s fur. The rage Yusuf feels comes only from inside of him. He moves under the invader’s other arm, leading with his sword, and is drenched again by the man’s blood.

When he turns, the man is already on his knees and falling forward. Facedown in the mud, where any man who betrays the rules of nature ought to be. Yusuf sees him take his last breath. He sees, with more horror than his body can hold, the way Yusuf’s own daemon shivers and pulls apart like a mirage when the invader stills.

Yusuf is alone on the battle field, thrice-cursed by this war and his undeath and the empty space where his glorious daemon once stood. He sinks down to his own knees, slow as an old man. For the first time since he lifted his scimitar for this necessary, vain, mortal conflict, he begins to weep.

\--

Niccolo had been curious and annoyed to discover that after a particularly unbecoming death, he had gained an infidel shadow. He’d tried yelling and swearing at the man, but that only provoked a smile that was blindingly white behind the tan and the blood and two palms raised in a gesture of peace. It was very annoying. Nicolo was annoyed.

Plenty of people have been cursed by minions of hell to test their faith in the Lord. Jesus himself wrestled with the devil in the desert, and Nicolo finds himself now in a desert with a man to wrestle. Perhaps the fact that he has not even been treated to a glimpse of heavenly gates is a crooked compliment. Keep up the good work, Christian soldier. The fact that his devil is unfrightened of him, prone to killing him for moving too quickly, and whistles at the volume of a war horn is further evidence of his status as the new Job.

In a moment of honesty, he knows that he deserves this unexpected purgatory. Deep inside, the guiltiest hungriest part of him knows that this hell was designed for him. He loves his sword, loves the peace inside the roar and thunder of the battle. His daemon was never meant for the quiet life, she is a predator among the flock of the godly. Besides, the things he has seen his fellow Crusaders do seem to test the limits of even their divine remit.

Even with his enemy at his heels, Nicolo needs rest. He tries to light a fire the first night and the infidel crushes it out with a foot, jabbering at him incomprehensibly while waving between the smouldering sticks and the battlefield behind them.

“Why can’t you just speak a real language,” Nicolo complains.

“Why can you not leave us exposed to be slaughtered in the night,” the man hisses back. His accent is strong but the words are perfectly understandable.

Fatigued or not, Nicolo staggers to his feet to defend his honour and his fire. The other man draws his sword too, his daemon rising up with the hairs of her back bristling. He sees his own exhaustion echoed in the face, already grown familiar, in front of him. If this ass can understand him, then the inconvenience of their journey is doubly humiliating for Nicolo. “We need to stay warm.”

“It is warm!” The man insists on speaking lower than him, a stated insult when placed next to the way he’d calmly surrendered the knife Nicolo is certain has stabbed him seven times. They stand, swords listing towards the ground, too tired to fight and too proud to sit again. Finally the man looks away, struggling with the remains of his cloak and throwing the bloody rag at Nicolo. “A blanket.”

“I’m not using--!”

The man makes a sharp gesture to cut him off, and Nicolo follows the gaze of both their daemons to the sound of armour and swearing passing alongside them. Dishonourable men, he thinks, scrambling through corpses for a new sword or a gilded crucifix. He is not sulking, but he sits himself down hard with his sword across his knees.

“You speak my tongue,” he says after a pause. This time, he keeps his voice quiet. The man shrugs, wobbles a finger to indicate a middling competence. “How?”

The man’s dark eyes flash. “Oh, now you are curious about my life. Now that you have no city to plunder, let us talk to a local and see if we cannot find peace.” He retreats into his own language, but Nicolo is entirely certain he’s being cursed at.

“My apologies for extending a hand of companionship,” he says. He can hear it sounds snooty. The man obviously catches the same tone, because he snorts loudly. It’s very unattractive.

“Until we die, I will follow you,” the man says, then rests his hand over his heart. “I am Yusuf.”

“Nicolo de Genua.”

Another eyeroll at his full name. “Must I call you all these things? I have made mine very easy for your simple mind.”

Nicolo flexes his hand on the hilt of a sword and then bids himself peace. This is a test. “Nicolo.”

Yusuf nods sharply. “When you die, you take my daemon with you. I am not leaving you to your own madness. Her life is worth the torment of your company.”

Nicolo looks hard at the other man’s daemon. She watches him back, sitting proud and silent at Yusuf’s side. He spares a glance at his own daemon, who leans her head down and presses back up with her skull cupped with his palm. It feels true and frightens him, so he absolutely asks for no further explanation.

The few people they pass as they walk away from the battle seem to find Yusuf very charming. He’d taken the opportunity at the first stream to scrub himself so that his hair had transformed from a matted mess to dark, glossy curls. He’d also dunked Nicolo, nearly drowning, when he’d moved too slowly to cleanse himself, hesitating at the water’s edge. Nicolo had nearly drowned, and he suspects that the effects of his impromptu bath are not nearly as flattering as his companion’s. Still, he makes up for this by being a much better hunter. Yusuf’s competence with a sword seems limited to killing men, and he proves useless with snares or any type of stalking or patience game.

So, Yusuf will keep others from killing them, and Nicolo will be sure that if they die it is due to their own choices rather than their incompetence. It seems a better trade than he’d first expected.

When he lays awake at night, he can still imagine the feel of Yusuf’s daemon’s fur under his hand. She had been warm and solid, near enough in shape to his own daemon that every element of contact with her felt like coming home. In the day, outside of the heat of battle, Nicolo can also see that she’s beautiful in rest as well as in a fight. She seems to laugh at him less than Yusuf, which makes the daemon infinitely preferable to the man.

Strangely, as the days pass, his daemon and Yusuf’s take to walking closer together. Neither is a solitary animal: wolves and lionesses were not meant to be studied singly, even Nicolo knows that much. As he and Yusuf take turns leading on their pointless journey, alternating who is in front based on who is annoyed enough to walk faster, the daemons range between them at the perfect midpoint, matching gaits.

“You’re embarrassing me,” he hisses to his daemon as she rises from his side of the fire that Yusuf finally has let him start, now that they’re undeniably alone.

“You’re embarrassing in many ways, my Nicolo,” she says very fondly, headbutts his shoulder. She still leaves him to sit next to Yusuf’s daemon, grooming her paws meticulously.

Within days, she doesn’t even give him the mercy of sleeping next to him. He’s always slept lightly, had taken for granted the comfort of her rhythmic breathing when he bolts upright in the middle of the night. Now when he wakes all he has to entertain himself is Yusuf, dimly lit by embers and the stars above. The man sleeps on his side facing the fire, arms wrapped gently around his stomach and mouth hanging open. When Nicolo sees, again and again, the peace and rest his companion finds each night, he considers murdering him. The only effect it will have is more damned baths and a further delay in their pointless adventure.

His daemon begins by sleeping next to Yusuf’s, then moves until they’re gradually twined together, grey and pale gold dappled in the moving firelight. They take to grooming each other, which sends the faintest trails of warmth and delight through Nicolo and leaves him blushing for hours on end. It is a new abomination, a betrayal of his very soul.

He can no longer bring himself to ask her to separate. He is losing his soul and his way.

The guilt at his unkindness lingers, buoyed up by the fear that his daemon has chosen to separate herself from his sinful rage and envy and, in his darkest and most confusing moments, lust. He can’t discuss the matter with her, not when Yusuf knows their language and is somehow always near, so Nicolo sinks into himself. Acts of charity are his escape from his inward gaze. Not to Yusuf, of course, the only charity that man should receive is the patience with which Nicolo endures his jokes. But bread to thin children, even if he can’t understand the eager questions that follow. Assistance to an overburdened old man, Yusuf forced as translator as Nicolo struggles to balance the rickety handcart. His cloak, unthinkingly passed to a new mother so tired and wan that it makes Nicolo’s heart cry out in sympathy.

He has no one but himself to blame when the sun sets into their first truly cold night. Instead, Nicolo resigns himself to not sleeping at all for now and vows to replace his cloak at the next town regardless of the cost. Yusuf had helped him with the fire, which is certainly an indication that this will be an unpleasant evening for all, but even the shelter of the rocks on three sides doesn’t dissuade the cutting wind.

He hunches himself up, glaring at the flames rather than at Yusuf or the daemons. The flames are least likely to mock his suffering.

“You shiver,” Yusuf says well into the dark hours. His voice is sleep rough, his accent still abysmal. Nicolo glares over at him. Yusuf seems unbothered, picks up his blanket and walks around the fire to sit immediately next to Nicolo. The worst of temptations, Nicolo can feel the warmth of his thigh even though they do not touch.

“I had imagined myself in a house, not,” he waves a hand to encompass the desert and Yusuf and his battered clothing. “No one said Crusading was going to take this long.”

“Perhaps we are beyond your Crusades at this point,” Yusuf says mildly. The man will laugh and joke and tell stories, but the more Nicolo tries to talk about his faith, his _purpose_ , the calmer and more placid the man becomes. He won’t even fight for what he believes, it is a perpetual burr in Nicolo’s side.

“I don’t have the power to forgive you for your sins,” Nicolo spits.

The creases around Yusuf’s eyes deepen into a smile. His voice sounds on the edge of laughter, too. “The last thing I need from you is _forgiveness_.”

“You’re worthless to fight with. No wonder we’re going to destroy your people.” Yusuf does snort at this, then pivots and stretches himself out on the ground behind Nicolo. “What do you think you’re doing? This is my side of the fire!”

“Your shivering causes the very earth to tremble,” Yusuf drawls. “I will sleep beside you for warmth as my good deed for the day.”

“I don’t need your help.” Nicolo will not cede his territory to this man. He stretches himself out too. They’re nearly matched in height, so Yusuf’s warmth stretches from his shoulders to his ankles.

“It would not be a good deed if I only did what you asked,” Yusuf murmurs. He drifts into sleep, turning himself away gradually until he’s facing away from Nicolo and the fire, curled gently in on himself like usual. Nicolo has a moment of pride, then guilt, then resignation. If Yusuf the devil is made to be warmer than Nicolo, surely it would not be a sin to take advantage of his nature?

And so he rolls too. The fire warms his back, the ground is less cold when it only touches one side. The scent of Yusuf is surprisingly not upsetting from this close, where Nicolo could bob his head forward and brush his nose against the faint ladder of bones down Yusuf’s spine. He has the power here, he assures himself. If he needed to, he could stab Yusuf in the kidneys before the man even twitched towards a sword.

Nicolo startles awake at dawn when he feels a shift in the breathing pattern under his arm. His infuriating blush is back as an unwanted guest, heating his ears and his neck and chest. Yusuf doesn’t say anything, though, when he gently raises Nicolo’s arm and leaves their sheltered space for his morning prayers. So Nicolo does it again. And then again, still without the teasing he holds his breath against.

They’re side by side at the fire, moving gradually north and east with no intention, trapping Nicolo in this foreign land and his reliance on Yusuf for all communication. Today, Yusuf has been studying his hands for at least the past hour and is as a result a useless conversationalist. The motion is so slow that Nicolo barely notices it, Yusuf’s palm flipping down as he extends a slow, gentle hand towards the head of Nicolo’s daemon. Nicolo is afraid, tenses for the pain.

His daemon butts her hand up into Yusuf’s hovering palm, eyes squinted close in pleasure. Nicolo feels the answering, reassuring wash over himself. Yusuf’s daemon had felt natural in his palms, and now—he can’t bring himself to call his daemons actions a betrayal. Besides, there’s something about the wonder in Yusuf’s face as he holds still, lets Nicolo’s daemon pet herself against his hand gently.

If he were not a coward, Nicolo would have left then. If he were wiser, he would have asked what Yusuf is doing. Nicolo is very tired and alive despite all best attempts, and his daemon is caught partially under the sleeping form of Yusuf’s as she voluntarily touches another man. Nicolo stays very quiet until Yusuf lays himself down to rest, and then, rather than waiting for sleep to chase the closeness his body and soul both seem to crave, he very gently rests his hand over Yusuf’s hip before they fall asleep.

\--

The boot against his ribs wakes Yusuf unpleasantly. He’s become spoiled as Nicolo’s heart softened. He hadn’t been quick to wake before, and with the addition of a solid arm over him, the way Nicolo’s breath stirred the hair on the nape of his neck? Yusuf has learned why there are so many warnings about hedonism, and broken many on the very long list of Nicolo’s church rules.

“He’s awake,” a voice says from above him. Another boot, this one digging very uncomfortably into the soft point of Yusuf’s waist. “I told you that we didn’t kill him, you asshole.”

Yusuf blinks and tries to lift his eyebrows and wrinkle its brow. The movement is delayed and tacky, probably blood. Definitely did kill him, then, even if these idiots aren’t clever enough to tell a corpse from a man. He listens hard but beyond his first tormenter there are only normal camping noises. No one is swearing in an outdated tongue, which means Nicolo is either unconscious or not there.

“Wake up, beast,” the man says. He sounds like he’s used to people following his instructions. Obviously this means that Yusuf is honour bound to disobey. He curls and flexes his wrists, worn sore and bloody already by the rough rope, and keeps his eyes closed until the man stomps instead of kicking, hard into his stomach and knocking the air out of him.

“Good morning,” he wheezes, opens both eyes and blinks rapidly to adjust to the brightness of the fire. “Do I smell tea?”

The heel grinds against another soft part of his stomach. Joe grins. He’s had worse. He’s had worse from Nicolo and still ended up fucking him the same night. This man is an amateur.

“Tell us who sent you.” The man grabs his hair and uses it to haul him up. Hands and legs bound tight, Yusuf can do little but wiggle himself along with the pressure until he’s propped against a rock. Again, he thinks, Nicolo does it better. “Are you a cursed man, or an evil spirit?”

“Cursed with terrible company, perhaps,” he says cheerfully. “And an empty stomach, as I believe I already implied.”

Knife. Oh, knives are much less fun than being pushed around a bit. The man presses the point to Yusuf’s cheek, so close that normally Yusuf would try for a bite if not for the inconvenient tangling of the blade against his skull or jaw.

“You have no daemon.”

Yusuf jolts. No daemons mean Nicolo is dead, and he cannot be dead. If Yusuf had time to return, then surely any injury of Nicolo’s has also mended. “My companion,” he says roughly.

“We left him in the mud,” the man sneers. Yusuf’s heart clenches, and then he makes the incorrect, impulsive choice to headbutt the asshole, injuries be damned.

The momentary satisfaction is not worth the way his kidnapper’s face changes when he sees Yusuf’s flesh reject the knife. Still, Yusuf thinks. He’s going to make this man very annoyed, and then surely he will die soon now that both his strange love and his daemon have departed. Nicolo was very confident in the link between them, made real by the way that the lioness and the wolf came together instead of attacking each other.

“You shouldn’t have,” he says lowly. The man grabs for his hair again and slices his throat. Yusuf grits his teeth against the pain and prepares himself for the jolt of revival and healing.

When he comes to, coughing up the old blood that had been trapped in his reforming throat, the rest of the camp seems to have caught his captor’s panic. Surprisingly, their attention is no longer on Yusuf. They have, he feels, a very lax system of defense against evil spirits if this is the attention they pay him.

He hears the roar before he sees the silhouette in the cave. He Dreamed Nicolo only once, compared to Andromache and Quynh. Still, the normal sorts of dreams, colours smearing at the edges and battlefields too big and too small, still haunt him at night. Perhaps if he lives long enough he’ll build memories to paper over the curve of Nicolo’s shoulders when he is preparing for an attack.

Motion from the two sides of the cave as his beloved stands between the kidnappers and their only escape, tall and proud. Speaking of evil spirits, he thinks with a fondness that bubbles up from the base of his spine. Speaking of vengeance.

Then it registers that the shapes are Miriam and Zipphora, laying waste to the weasels and bird daemons of the men who now stand between Nicolo and, Yusuf belatedly realizes, himself.

Nicolo has cut through men before. Yusuf is certain that it should strike fear into him, that he should not enjoy the loss of life even if the sacrifice was the cost of another day with Nicolo. And still, he cannot look at the strange men and their weak efforts because his eyes are drawn to the smooth lines of Nicolo’s arms, the way his toes pivot in the dirt, the gleam and flash of his sword.

"Yusuf,” Miriam says when she reaches him first. She butts her head up against him hard and whines an apology when he hisses in surprise. Zipphora is next, settling against his side and licking her broad tongue over the blood on his cheek to reveal the healed flesh beneath. Miriam repeats his name and Zipphora echoes it quieter as they form a wall between him and the last of the destruction.

Nicolo is too good at what they do to drop his sword like a dramatic youth. He cleans it casually on the shirt of one of the fallen men and slides it home into its sheath on his hip before he stalks over.

“Will you say my name, too?” Yusuf asks, smiling up at him.

“Idiot, dribbling careless fool, soft skinned,” Nicolo starts his series of very personal curses as he drops to his knees. His hands go straight to Yusuf’s face, fingertips behind his ears and thumbs spanning his cheekbones. The kiss is terrible in almost every way except that it is Nicolo’s mouth against his.

“You attribute great creativity to my mother,” he says breathlessly when Nicolo pulls back to rest their foreheads together. His fingers bite bruises into Yusuf’s skin and the sustained pressure holds them there. “Please, call me Yusuf for short.”

“My muddle headed layabout,” Nicolo says instead. “I only knew you were alive because Miriam and Zipphora remained with me. But I was so afraid—“

“I’ll never leave you,” Yusuf says with a confidence he hadn’t felt moments before Nicolo’s arrival. “I’m too thick headed, and I’m terrible at making new friends. I’m afraid you’re the only one who’ll do. When a man meets the other half of his jagged soul, all he can hope is for the strength to spend each day with his heart’s love.”

A better kiss, lingering and drawn out and wrapped in the comfort of both their daemon’s attentions. Then Nicolo’s hands slide down, scratching his beard and pressing his throat for a breathless second.

“We could kill you ourselves,” Zipphora says sternly, “leaving us all like that.”

"My sweet lady, I swear to never part from you—“ Yusuf stops and looks around. “Wait, did we know we could do that?”

Nicolo tries to unpick his bindings. His patience is frayed tonight, because he introduces a knife before he’s even found the base of the knot. His hands gentle the thin slice the knife makes when it slides between Yusuf’s skin and the ropes, too shallow to bleed. Yusuf headbutts him gently to get his attention, earns a distracted, “We can talk about this later.”

“I don’t think we’ve ever done that before. I thought you were dead,” Yusuf says instead. Nicolo’s eyes hide little, and Yusuf can see the depth of his pain.

“I would not leave you,” he swears back, and then hauls Yusuf unceremoniously to his feet. “Unless, of course, you cannot walk.”

He does stumble, props himself against Zipphora’s steady flank as he gets the rhythm of the steps back. His slow start is meaningless, by now he knows that sometimes Nicolo feels obligated to retain the friction of their first meetings through words he does not mean. He’s still learning how to enjoy the softness they inspire in each other. Any man who would fish Yusuf out of a river would also provide a shoulder crutch after untying him in a cave. They find the spot where Nicolo has abandoned their belongings near the cave mouth. Yusuf lets his lover settle the cloak over his shoulders and the scimitar over that. He knows the importance of confirming their wholeness after separation and death.

“We’re leaving,” Nicolo announces when he’s got their pack over his own shoulder. His knuckles brush Yusuf’s but he doesn’t tangle their fingers together, still prepared for another battle. Yusuf trails half a step, then two behind him as they walk into the night. The daemons harry him to keep him upright and moving, but the aftermath of death is tiring even if you’re only experiencing it and not imparting it on others.

He puts one foot in front of the other, all the same. He’s been tired before, and he’s not alone. This is the most essential things a man could ask for. They will stop when Nicolo’s restless energy is sated, and Yusuf will sleep then.

Nicolo’s back is firm and perfect when Yusuf walks right into it, barely managing to stop before he cracks his nose against his love’s perfect skull. Nicolo turns and looks at him, face hard to read in the poor light. “You’re tired.”

“I could sleep,” Yusuf agrees. He can’t make his voice as casual as he had planned. Nicolo sets him on a log like a child, bustles around him to set up camp and retrieve food. Yusuf eats mindlessly, so that he can avoid realizing he’s hungry when he stops being tired. Then he scoots his way off the log and stretches out on his side.

Nicolo does not settle behind him immediately. Yusuf cracks an unhappy eye open to see Nicolo’s boots immediately in front of his face.

“Do you know why you were taken?” Nicolo asks from above him.

“I assumed you would tell me in the morning. You always have a better mind for these things than I do.” He tries a winsome smile. It appears to be unsuccessful.

“You rouse too slowly,” Nicolo scolds down. His feet retreat as he starts pacing. “How can I protect you when I’m wrapped around you and you’re snoring in the face of death!”

“You don’t have to protect me, my love. We’re immortal,” Yusuf groans. “Come to bed.”

Nicolo does come back, but only to prod and drag at Joe until he finds his back against the wall of fur that is Zipphora’s golden flank. Then, still fussing like a mother hen, Nicolo sits down and stretches out full length in _front_ of Yusuf, nodding his satisfaction before he wiggles back until their bodies are tight again.

“A shield?” Yusuf asks. Nicolo steers him further until they’re wrapped together, laces his fingers through Yusuf’s over his heart.

“A more sensible solution,” he says instead. “And you’re right, we’ve never done that before. I came back to life, you were gone, and both Zipphora and Miriam were with me.” His voice softens, his thumb stroking along Yusuf’s. “Did it hurt you?”

“Not at all,” he says. “I told you, I feared that you were dead and then I saw you and I knew we’d be fine. Nothing like separation at all.”

Nicolo grunts discontentedly. Yusuf can feel his body moving the wrong way, tensing instead of relaxing into sleep. He presses his lips to Nicolo’s nape slowly, shifts closer to scatter kisses down to his shoulder. Nicolo turns his head so that their eyes meet. He’s frowning.

“I don’t like to think about you without a daemon. I would never—“

“Perhaps I didn’t feel separation because my soul was with my heart,” Yusuf says. Nicolo tenses again and then goes lax. He smiles the tiny secret smile that is only for Yusuf, turns again and rests his head on his arm.

“I guess we could use that. If we can swap daemons, or hide them. It might be easier.”

“Oh yes, much more subtle to walk into town with a lion than a wolf.” Yusuf returns to his kisses without urgency. He can feel sleep rolling down on him, pressing away the fear from the night and the ache of their walk.

“You will regret your lack of creativity when I remind you a hundred years from now that your first response to my idea was to dismiss it,” Nicolo says without heat.

A hundred years. Yusuf smiles involuntarily, lifts his head up enough to kiss the back of Nicolo’s ear and breathe, “A thousand years.” Nicolo’s response is comfortable and muzzy and distant, and Yusuf falls asleep before he can decide the next interval of immortality to promise.

\---

Shakespeare pontificates like a man who has forgotten the necessity of breath for life. The man is tiresome and vain and treasures his own voice above any other of God’s creations. To Nicolas’ dismay, but not surprise, Joseph loves him. “He’s funny,” he says whenever Nicolas tries to get out of another interminable lunch that he’ll end up paying for because Will has again forgotten his own purse. “He sees the world in such beautiful ways, and then he shares this knowledge.”

Worse still, Nicolas is weak for persuasion and will certainly end up trapped with Will in the near future. Joseph knows the ways to trick Nicolas’ own body into relaxing, and he uses them all like siege weapons against Nicolas’ justifiable restraint.

“He’s going to talk about his rhyming scheme again,” he groans. Joseph unfairly works both thumbs along his spine in his lower back. “He’s going to tell us it’s revolutionary, and then he’s going to talk for hours about the power of language.”

Joseph’s mouth is following his hands. Nicolas is aware that he is now protesting only for the sake of his own indignity. A glance to the side, where Miriam and Zipphora are lazily tangled and watching him complain without sympathy, reinforces his view.

“But I would be so grateful to have his words and your handsome face in the same room,” Joseph murmurs. His beard smooths and then scratches Nicolas’ arse when he speaks. It is infuriatingly pleasurable.

“Every sonnet is a year off my life,” Nicolas announces to be difficult. Joseph’s hands cup and frame his arse, his thumbs sliding up and in. “I will find the limits of immorality in this cursed country.”

Joseph’s nose follows his fingers and Nicolas shudders hard at the warm air on his exposed skin. He shifts to pull up a knee, get traction to move against Joseph’s lips, and is pushed firmly back prone on his stomach. It’s not worth fighting over. Joseph is rewarding him for patience, not provoking him with teases.

Nicolas goes boneless, trusts his love to taste and move him in the most satisfying ways. His groan, low and cut off at the hint of teeth, is matched by the purring of their daemons next to the bed. There’s a rustle of fur against fur and both are standing, stalking to be out of the way. For all that Miriam and Zipphora’s love had shown long-ago Nicolo what he could build with Yusuf, the daemons find their oral conversations much more interesting than the dialogue between their bodies.

It doesn’t hurt that a lion and a wolf at the door will prevent all but the most tenacious of interrupters.

Nicolas keeps his eyes closed, the better to enjoy the stretch of Joseph’s fingers and the slide of his tongue. He goes willingly when Joseph lifts him enough to get a hand beneath him, loose enough around his cock that it won’t help him chase a finish but another delicious point of stimulation.

“Your mouth,” he gasps in their language.

Joseph laughs, the sound shaking loose a full body shudder from Nicholas. “See, how can you tire of our actor friend when you know that yours is the only poetry to reside in my heart?”

“I’ll show you residing,” Nicholas grumbles halfheartedly, presses his hips back to chase the pleasurable contact and perhaps finally quiet his love. “Are you going to leave me so weak I cannot protest, or are you going to fuck me?”

“Both?” Joseph asks, laughing again. Nicholas has admitted in his weaker moments that the sound has as much effect on him as any gasp or grunt. He has already had centuries to treasure and regret his honesty, because Joseph loves to laugh as much as he loves to fuck.

The pressure of Joseph’s touch leaves and then returns, his hands leaving slick patterns as he retraces his route down Nicolas’ back and gently inside him. Nicolas hums sharply, tries to twitch his hips to chase the fullness. He is gentled by Joseph’s lips, focusing on the points of contact and the knowledge that he really needs to keep breathing to prolong this.

Joseph has added a third finger and Nicholas has scrambled through his weakened, distracted brain to collect the words to beg. Then, footsteps on the stair.

“No,” he gasps, tries to surge back again where Joseph’s fingers have stilled.

“Peace, my heart.” Their visitor is not deterred by the predators at the end of the hallway, footsteps continuing towards them with the confidence of the foolish or drunk.

“Good evening and twenty, good Masters and friends!” sings out a familiar, grating voice.

“No,” Nicholas says louder. “No, absolutely not, Yusuf I swear to your God and mine—“

Will ignores the rumble of their daemons and rattles the handle on their door. Nicholas knows it is unlocked and takes the opportunity for the only peace and respite he can: he pulls a pillow over his head and holds it down with both hands.

Joseph doesn’t retreat as quickly, because Nicholas hears the door creak open before callused fingers slip out and away down his thigh.

“Master Shakespeare, you surprise us,” Joseph says. His voice is hoarse. Nicholas is resentfully glad.

“My two most treasured lechers! I had to come, you have no conception of the idea I’ve had for my new play.”

Nicholas untangles himself from the safe prison of the pillow in time to see Will’s parrot daemon flutter to the back of the only chair in their room. Not a short visit then. The man is lecherous himself to have taken the sight of them, Nicholas fully exposed and Joseph down to his breeches, in fair stride compared to his own self-love.

Miriam slinks into the room, eying him guiltily. He pulls a face at her, reaches back until he can find the sheet to pull back over his hips and cover his nakedness in the face of ceaseless conversation.

Joseph squeezes his hip fondly, but he’s already distracted by Will’s spun yarn. It’s more complicated than the histories, full of magic and mistaken identities and probably packed with men who just have to kiss boy actors in front of a crowd, for _art_. Nicholas shifts to let Zipphora up onto the bed, uses her instead of pillows to prop himself up. If he’s not going to get off, at least he’ll enjoy the look on Joseph’s face when he talks literature to someone who respects it.

If he’s very lucky, he’ll never have to hear another damned line of William Shakespeare once they leave this island.

\--

Nicky pushes himself out of the pool with one sleek moment and Joe’s entire consciousness tries to transcend. It’s one thing to take in a whole scene when you’re in combat, another to have to choose between focusing his eyes on the water trailing down Nicky’s neck or the disappearing vee where his hips meet the swimsuit bottoms or the perfect flex of muscles as he levers himself out of the water. Joe does what any happily married man would do: he sprawls himself back on the deck chair and settles in for the show.

Nicky isn’t much for acting, but he settles easily into the personality of a man who has a lioness daemon and would take his new husband on a two month honeymoon. This largely involves shifting the length of his stride and the position of his shoulders, evoking his movements in the bedroom so that every time Joe sees him move he has to fight the instinctive hardon. Joe doesn’t necessarily have to act to play the adoring spouse, though he’s happy to take advantage by being as excessive with his attention as possible.

“Careful of my phone, baby,” he says as Nicky leans over him.

Nicky plucks it up and tosses it to the side before he swings a leg over Joe and the chair, settling his weight high on Joe’s thighs. He takes a slow, entirely captivating pull from Joe’s bottle of beer. Joe tries to shift and Nicky’s thighs flex and clench in, holding them both in place.

So it’s going to be like that. Joe leans his head back again and Nicky chases him forward to press him down, lips hovering just out of reach. Now he’s trapped against the seatback, two cool damp patches forming where Nicky presses palms into his shoulders. To their side, Zipphora has an accommodating Miriam pinned as well, meticulously grooming over her muzzle and up between her eyes. Also a good sign.

“Sunscreen break?” he asks breathlessly. The fact that Nicky won’t stay burned makes the necessity of regular application even more crucial. Can’t be undercover if your rapid healing shifts you from lobster to ghost in the very-visible space of minutes. Joe is very, very thorough. Nicky’s ears and eyelids, right down under the waistband for full coverage, the opportunity to bite at Nicky’s arm as he manoeuvres it to knead the cream in all the way around the ball of his shoulder.

“I was thinking a nap, Mr. Smith,” Nicky says innocently.

“Which kind of nap?” Joe asks. The returning look makes him try to adjust his legs again. Zipphora growls softly, settling her teeth over the scruff of Miriam’s neck without biting down. “Okay, yes, I could do that. But for the record, I’m Angelina Jolie in this scenario.”

They have another week to charm the other guests and the remainder of the staff before their target arrives, anyway. It is definitely part of their cover to take frequent breaks and require fresh sheets every day. Everyone seems to find it too embarrassing to look at them after the most recent dinner incident, which should help cement the view that they’re part of the scenery, too occupied with each other to threaten even the most paranoid embezzler.

Joe shifts to sit up crossways on the lounger after Nicky stands. His love gives him a long, critical look before taking Joe’s cap and replacing it backwards. Joe sways up into the movement again and this time Nicky bends down to kiss him long and slow.

“The room is so far away,” he whines when Nicky tangles their hands together and hauls him up.

“I will make the trip worthwhile,” Nicky promises. Joe’s knees don’t go weak, but it’s only because he has centuries to adjust to being the scrutiny of Nicky’s thorough gaze.

Nicky finds time to tip the bartender again and help a maid who’d nearly overbalanced her stack of towels on the way back to their room. Their daemons, tussling and making pleased noises behind them, promise Joe that this very small mission is still on track.

The bedroom has started to feel lived in despite the luxury. One of Nicky’s shirts, only half unbuttoned, is draped over the folded and stacked bathing suits Joe had picked through carefully for the day’s outfit. Nicky has left a series of partially empty water glasses around the room, including one inexplicably and precariously on top of the television. Their shaving tools, arranged by Joe to clinically precise lines, are partially hidden behind the towel he’d thrown towards the sink before they left this morning.

Joe sprawls back on the bed, craning his neck so he can catch the moment where Nicky shucks the wet swimsuit and comes to him naked. Joe waits again as Nicky surveys him, eyes catching and cataloguing in a way that’s almost as intimate as the touching. He shuts his eyes for the shortest reprieve, goes even more boneless when Nicky traces a fingernail around his nipple and down his stomach.

“I was thinking I could fuck you,” Nicky adds. His tone is thoughtful, his fingertips still working with such light pressure that it could be a phantom touch shared with their daemons rather than the real thing. Joe’s stomach clenches hard at the thought. “Yes?”

“Anything,” Joe breathes. He brings a hand up to Nicky’s cheek, kisses his chin and the corner of his mouth. He is besotted. This man brings him purpose and renders him unless simultaneously. Nicky snaps the waistband of his shorts sharply. Joe’s hips jerk once and he leans his head back, chuckles.

“Any requests?” Nicky asks as he props himself up on an elbow. He’s watching Joe’s dick fill out further in his trunks, instead of Joe’s face.

“Anything. Everything?”

Nicky pauses, pursing his lips thoughtfully. Joe uses the distraction to grab his arms and roll them towards the centre of the bed, a move he’s pretty sure he stole from judo but can now never safely use in a regulation match. He leans down for a kiss and Nicky makes a teasing motion like he’s going to pull away before flipping them over again so he’s back on top.

“Don’t distract me,” he says, kisses Joe gently and then again more thoroughly. “I’m working through a plan.”

Joe lets him lead, chases him when he pulls away but settles when Nicky presses a firm hand to his chest. And his love moves down, lips burning Joe’s chest and stomach as he maps a path of kisses. Nicky gets Joe’s shorts worked down far enough that they can be kicked free, skims his breath along Joe’s dick without touching.

“If I’d known you weren’t coming in the water this morning, I could have stretched you before we went out,” he says conversationally.

Joe is grateful for his complete lack of shame and years of experience, because he doesn’t think he could spare the blood necessary to blush at this point. He bends his knee and slides his heel up to display himself. “We can make up for the mistakes of the past.”

Methodical is a good word for it. Useful word, so many useful words, Joe thinks. Nicky has never once matched a pair of socks in all their years together, but he can reach out in a dark room after a bottle of vodka and unerringly find the places in Joe that make him whimper helplessly. Here, with the sun gilding them through the window and the air conditioning prickling the hair on Joe’s chest and arms, it’s a done deal.

He presses in, slow and sweet as honey. Joe is determined not to break first this time but it’s always an effort not to claim more. He fists his hands on either side of his head in the pillow and imagines painting the scene. He’d need a new mix for Nicky’s eyes in the tropical light, just a dab around the pools of his pupils. Maybe he’d layer the paint to evoke the way the crumpled sheets shifted under their legs. And the light, have to get the direction right there—

Nicky shifts them both mercilessly and Joe doesn’t try to stop the groan, feels the movement of his panting against Nicky’s sniper-steady breaths. Just when Joe thinks he might have a chance of drawing it out, his beautiful _bastard_ does it again.

“I love you,” he says, thinks he got it out in English. This is undercover sex, he thinks even if his eyes are about to cross from pleasure. He needs to keep the language correct for their covers. Definitely just two hot dudes fucking in the honeymoon suite, no immortal warriors to see here.

“I’m with you,” Nicky murmurs instead. It still sounds like a vow and a promise. He braces himself with one arm, uses the other to briefly squeeze Joe’s fist, still clenched by his head so he doesn’t interrupt Nicky’s master plan. Joe is turning his head, trying to decide if he’s going to kiss or bite at the pulse on Nicky’s wrist, but Nicky’s already moved again, curling a hand once with the same too-gentle touch and then settling without pause into a perfect grip, almost on the side of too hard. Joe slips over the edge, giving in and shutting his eyes so it’s just the sensation of his stuttering heart and Nicky’s warm body against and into his own.

Nicky folds down gracelessly on top of him as he finishes, gasping open-mouthed against Joe’s pec until they both recover enough to disentangle themselves and pull free. Nicky slides more than rolls this time, landing himself face down next to Joe.

Miriam’s head pops into sight at the edge of the bed, immaculately groomed but definitely also judging. “I thought we were going to take the boat out today.”

“Peace, please,” Joe groans. He pops his fingers one at a time, manages to twist and dip his head enough to kiss the shell of Nicky’s ear. “Five minutes.”

Their daemon huffs, dropping out of view again. Nicky takes another moment before he moves his arms below his head, propping his chin on his arm. They grin at each other and Joe feels the same passionate burn in his stomach, banked down to manageable levels.

Best of all, they have more time. They could actually nap, he can blow Nicky behind the copse of trees on the golf course later tonight. So many choices. Joe reaches for his swim trunks again, smiles coyly at the only man worth looking at.

“I certainly feel well rested now. The only remaining question is, boat tour or bocce ball, Mr. Smith?"

Nicky's helpless laughter follows him as he walks back out onto the patio and into the sun.

\--

Nicky is trying to clean the oven. They’ve been in this place long enough (and Nile and Andy have experimented with enough late night frozen pizzas) that the whole kitchen needs a little attention anyway, and he doesn’t mind cleaning. Being a transient former Crusader afraid of revealing one’s immortality to anyone from lords and ladies down to servants and washerwoman makes for a less glamorous eternity than the one promised by other priests. It also means Nicky is very familiar with a range of cleaning techniques.

He’s knelt halfway in, reaching for the crust that’s been loosened with the cleaning spray, when he feels the first touch. Featherlight warmth along the shell of his ear. He’s still ticklish enough that he nearly loses his balance and has to catch at the countertop with the other hand. Another sensation of contact, a slow palm rubbing over his left flank and pressing into the knotted muscles around the base of his spine.

“Joe,” he yells warningly. The warmth retreats briefly and he picks up his pace to make the most of the respite. Then, a pressure he’d recognize from any other touch in the universe, a familiar brow between his shoulderblades.

The oven can wait. Miriam scrambles to her feet when he stands. Her tongue hangs doggishly as she comes to his side and scratches under her jaw. It feels nice, but it’s never the same to do it to yourself.

“Let’s go find them.”

Joe is an incorrigible flirt but not a particularly public one, so Nicky steers away from the sound of the others in the living room and chases the sound of Zipphora’s rumbling purr into the laundry room. His frustrating love is wearing only a ridiculous pair of basketball shorts, feet bumping against the window of the front-loaded washing machine as he sprawls himself back on top of it.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Joe says. He is the picture of innocence, and he warms Nicky to the very core.

“Couldn’t you have waited five more minutes? I was almost finished.” Still, he takes a step forward to be within reach, lets himself be drawn the rest of the way when Joe hooks a leg around him and pulls him closer with a heel to Nicky’s ass.

“An eternity. A lifetime, separate and wishing for your touch,” Joe teases. Nicky gives in and spans his hands under Joe’s ribs, leans in to inhale against Joe’s neck.

“When we are asked why we live in squalor, I will remind you of your insatiable needs,” he murmurs. He can feel the edge of Joe’s smile pressed against his temple as they shift and settle closer together. The shorts don’t hide anything, whispering against Nicky’s jeans when Joe scoots himself forward enough for full contact.

“But Nicolo, the pleasures of modern life are surely greater than your need to impress company.” As if on cue, the machine rumbles into its spin cycle. Joe grinds hard into him, gasping in his ear.

Nicky’s skin already tingled from the phantom touches on their daemons, so it’s easy enough to shift his grip to encircle one of Joe’s thighs, hoist him up so that his love is knocked off balance and slides closer to him. He loses himself for a moment in the vibrations, the slow pressure in his increasingly tight jeans and the flex of Joe’s muscles along his side and under his hand.

“Nile told me this is A Thing,” Joe says proudly, even if his voice is pitched slightly higher than his normal tease. “I thought you would prefer it to the other times I’ve had you over the laundry.”

“The mangle was particularly uncomfortable,” Nicky agrees, relaxes enough to let his hips twitch involuntarily against the crease of Joe’s thigh. “I’m not sure this is better than fucking in a river, though, modernity be damned.”

“The last time you fucked me in a river I lost all but one pair of pants to the current,” Joe mutters. “I’ll have you here and keep my full wardrobe, thanks.”

Nicky flexes a hand and drags his body up against Joe’s slowly, rocking up and down on his toes. He’s got Joe trapped without leverage, or Joe has let himself be trapped. Between one lifted knee and the arrhythmic shaking of the machine, Nicky can chase his own pleasure, consider the benefits of bringing a hand down. They don’t spend enough time close, he thinks. The modern world is so busy with its machines and constant concerns, he hardly ever has time to remap Joe’s body or tease him as he deserves.

The meat of Joe’s shoulder is familiar between his teeth and he worries his way up the sharp tendons to Joe’s jaw and back down to the swell of his bicep.

“Nicky, come on,” Joe gasps. He sacrifices the stability of both hands to curl his right fingers at the base of Nicky’s skull, hauls him closer until their mouths are performing the same wet slide as their cocks, close without intentionality.

“You want me to finish what you’ve started?” Nicky murmurs, smirks at the punched-out groan of approval when he finally moves his free hand, sliding it down Joe’s back and inside the shorts to dig his fingers sharply into Joe’s glutes. “No teasing?”

Joe’s voice cracks when Nicky presses a finger gently to his opening. The instinctive arch of his back brings their hips tighter together and Nicky hikes up Joe’s leg again, presses in until there’s no air between them, and traces the finger in a slow, promising circle. It’s enough friction for Joe to come against him, losing the last of his balance as his arm skids along the machine until he’s nearly prone, head propped on the wall behind him.

The familiarity of Joe’s bleary grin. The new pressure of his flexing groin muscle digging Nicky in further still so that the seam of his jeans and boxers scrapes roughly against his cock. He follows Joe down, unsure of what language he’s gasping praise in as he rocks himself through his own orgasm. It’s good, now, that he’s propped mostly against the edge of the machine because his knees have gone too loose for normal activities.

Joe sweeps a hand through his hair and beams. There’s a hint of the smugness of an idea well executed, but more than that is the same joy Nicky feels whenever they can do this—no matter how many times they have or will. He curls down the rest of the way so that his head is braced on Joe’s chest. He paces his breaths to the comfortable rise and fall, feels the pulse in his temples match Joe’s heartbeat.

“So, I still have another load to do if you think you have any last minute clothes to add,” Joe says. The rumble of his voice sends a last shockwave through Nicky, gives him the clarity to disentangle his numbing arm from under Joe’s back and release Joe’s leg. The bruises fade in front of them as Joe stretches the limb out further, flexes his ankle and toes with a satisfied groan.

“A menace. How can I ever take you out in public,” Nicky groans.

“Oh no, what curses have fallen upon my family, you will have to keep me here for yourself,” Joe says immediately. He stretches down to kiss the top of Nicky’s head, draws them both upright for a more sustained kiss. There’s always the moment where Nicky knows that it’s true, that if he said the word it would just be them.

They might go mad from boredom, if the pleasure didn’t take them first. He takes half a step back, sustaining the contact between their lips as he struggles to smooth his own shirt back into place. A look stands in for the “I love you” that Nicky has never managed to frame widely enough for his feelings. Joe’s soft eyes return the sentiment.

On his way out the door, Nicky leans down and scratches Miriam firmly beneath her right ear for the pleasure of seeing Joe’s leg twitch in response.

“Be careful what you start, Joe,” Nicky says. “I am just as capable of the game as you.”

Joe slumps himself back again, his smile brighter than the sun. There isn’t a trace of guilt for the distraction he caused or the delay in their day that had followed.

Joe murmurs, voice throaty with promise. “Do your worst, I’m sure I will know when it’s time to find you.” Nicky tugs sharply on Zipphora’s tail, winks, and returns to his own chores.


	2. Outtake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setup for the Undercover Resort scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did this when I was trying to write myself into Joe and Nicky undercover boning, and then decided that I wanted to start in the moment (which is how each section goes except for Nicky Very Slowly Realizing He Does Have Feelings And Then Then Spoon). 
> 
> Brought to you by the way Nicky says Joe's name in "There's a TV, Joe!"
> 
> So, for your pleasure, team!

Joe wakes when Andy throws a thin package on his chest with more force than necessary. Or, he considers waking. His eyelashes may be tangled together because his eyes seem very disinterested in joining the game. Besides, the hint of aftershave he gets when Nicky leans over him to take the impromptu weapon, pulling it out and rustling through the papers.

“A resort?” he says after a few minutes. Joe cracks an eye to better appreciate the confused squint on his face. “A honeymoon package?”

“Aw, boss, you shouldn’t have,” Joe coos, pressing both hands to his chest. “And when you didn’t return the RSVP we thought you’d decided to boycott our little ceremony.”

“Fuck knows you don’t need witnesses for the rituals _you_ use,” Andy grumbles. “It’s a way in with our asshole trust fund manager. He’s taking his girlfriend on the most expensive getaway in this time zone, really spreading out the money laundering over national lines.”

“We need a two month vacation to kill one guy?” Nicky asks, still flipping through the papers.

“I got you in a few weeks before he’s set to arrive. Get settled, talk to the staff, be part of the scenery. If he thinks anything’s hinky, he’ll bolt.”

The rest of Joe jolts awake at the promise of a few weeks and a resort and possibly licking champagne off of Nicky’s stomach. Then he smirks at Booker. “Hey, it’s not fair of Andy to just offer this to us. Booker hasn’t had a vacation in years.”

“Booker doesn’t want to spend weeks dealing with your morning breath,” the man retorts immediately without looking up from book. Joe stands and stretches, prowls closer. Baudelaire sees it coming and darts off of Booker’s lap and away, and Joe drapes himself extravagantly over his friend.

“Weeks of gentle handholding? Sharing a coffee cup?” Because Joe’s managed to get both of Booker’s arms under him when he fell, there’s no effective defense when he leans himself up and smacks a noisy kiss on Booker’s cheek.

“You’re a complete lunatic,” Booker says fondly. “Get off me, you oversized housecat.”

Joe gets another kiss and a lick of his tongue to Booker’s temple as he stands. “Well, if he says he doesn’t want vacation I suppose I will have to settle for my Nicky’s company.”

“So generous,” Nicky hums without looking away from the briefing. He lifts an arm for Joe to slip up against his side. “Look, Joe, they have Bocce ball _and_ a rock climbing wall.”  
  



End file.
